And Sorrows End
by Kallie49
Summary: As his telepathic link with Beverly becomes stronger, Picard thinks that there is no one else he could imagine sharing himself with, and there is no one else he could be more terrified of sharing himself with. Existing and alternate scenes for "Attached," from Picard's point of view. P/C. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Everyone knows that the world has more than enough fanfics with respect to "Attached," but what my story presupposes is, maybe it doesn't? This is my attempt to flesh out the fireside scene, continuing from there to a rewrite of the episode ending. Given the subject matter, similarities to other stories are perhaps inevitable, but I have purposely not gone back and read any existing stories on the subject, so any similarities are purely coincidental. Episode credit is to Nicholas Sagan. Feedback is welcomed.

#-#-#-#

The night air is cold, and he carefully tends to the fire he's built for them, grateful for its warmth. Grateful, too, that if they have to spend a night in the open wilderness on an alien world, evading pursuers as they make their escape from captivity, that at least the weather is clear and they have sufficient kindling for the fire. He is staying alert, but isn't too worried about drawing unwanted attention with their small light in the darkness; the notes in the escape route smuggled to them in their cell this morning indicated that overnight campfires are not uncommon in these rocky hills. It's another thing, he supposes, for which to be grateful.

_Incorrigible optimist_. The sour words, directed at him, appear in his mind, and Jean-Luc Picard smiles dryly as Beverly Crusher drops down to sit on a stone beside him. "No luck?" he asks, though the answer would radiate clearly even if he couldn't read her thoughts.

She snaps her tricorder shut and blows out a breath in frustration. "I'm beginning to think there's not a single thing on this planet we can eat."

He's hungry, too, but he tries to reassure her, keeping his voice mild. "Well, by this time tomorrow we could be back on the _Enterprise_ and you can plant yourself in front of a replicator with a knife and fork."

_Or a soup spoon_, she agrees, more amiable now, remembering the vegetable soup he'd earlier chided her to stop thinking of. He feels her thoughts skip lightly from one savory dish to another, and she smiles. "Remember that Vulcan dish I promised you for breakfast?"

He ducks his head, as if he can physically bite back the reflexive thought that is the mental equivalent of muttering under his breath. He fails.

"I was just— " She stops, and he feels her sudden bewilderment and hurt. "You hate having breakfast with me."

"That's not true," he protests, bewildered in turn that she can jump to such a radical conclusion from a single stray thought.

"Yes, it is," she insists. "When I said _breakfast_, I heard you say, _I hate that_."

"That isn't quite what I _meant_." Exasperated, unexpectedly on the defensive, he drops the stick he is using to prod the fire.

"Well, then, what _did_ you mean?"

"It's just that I don't like—"

"—what I've been choosing for breakfast recently," she finishes.

_Yes, for heaven's sake, that's all._ Images of some of her more exotic spreads flash through his mind, along with his remembered feelings of resignation. He tries to explain so she doesn't misunderstand him again. "You see, I think that breakfast should be a simple meal and recently you've been ordering these elaborate things."

_Oh_. Chastened, she sees it now, and shakes her head. "Coffee and croissants," she says wonderingly. "That's all you really want, isn't it? Coffee and croissants. Well, why didn't you just _say_ so?"

He shrugs uncomfortably. "I didn't think it was important." It would have seemed impolite, after all, when she was clearly making so much of an effort and he _did_ enjoy their time together...just not the food.

She is still shaking her head, incredulous, and he glances up in surprise. "You don't like those elaborate meals either," he realizes. _Wait, then why did you—?_

"No, I usually prefer something simple myself, but I thought you might enjoy more variety."

_And I didn't say anything— _

_And you didn't say anything—_

_So I thought— _

_So you thought— _

They smile at each other a bit sheepishly. "Well, I guess it's coffee and croissants for both of us from now on," she says genially, and he sends his relief and agreement across their link... before his stomach rumbles and he tries to banish from his mind any further thoughts of warm, flaky, buttered pastries.

_Sorry._

_It's all right._

He lapses into silence, lets his thoughts drift again as he stares into the crackling flames, tracing the paths of the glowing cinders as they dance into the air. He murmurs aloud at the same time as she does: "I love firelight."

She laughs, and he marvels again at the strange intimacy this enforced telepathy has brought them. With their captors' psionic implants they are no longer alone with their own thoughts, and it is unsettling and exhilarating all at once. For as close as any two friends might be, as they are, there is always some elemental mystery that remains, some barrier that cannot be breached when it comes to _mind_, to _essence_. But now the barrier between them is dissolving slowly, inexorably, as their link becomes stronger, and he thinks there is no one else he could imagine sharing himself with, and he thinks there is no one else he could be more terrified of sharing himself with.

He edges away from the dangerous eddies coursing beneath the surface of conscious thought, glad that she doesn't seem to have noticed, and focuses again on the hypnotic light in front of him. "There's something about the flames, the smell of the smoke, that's always seemed to me to be...intoxicating, somehow."

Beverly smiles and he thinks he will be safe, until she speaks.

"I remember when Jack and I took Wesley on his first camping trip to Balfour Lake. Wesley kept throwing manta leaves in the fire and watching them pop. Jack kept telling him—"

She freezes. _Jean-Luc?_

In his mind's eye he sees her, two decades past, long red hair, mischievous eyes, slender and beautiful and impossibly graceful; and he sees his friend, full of humor and energy; and he knows these memories are his downfall and he curses inwardly as the barrier between them is swept away in a flood of submerged emotion that he still tries, with desperation, to contain.

He fails.

"Jean-Luc, I heard you," she whispers. "Don't push it away. When I said _Jack and I_, I felt this sudden wave of…_something_."

He stares rigidly into the flames, but his thoughts are roiling and he is helpless to keep them from her. He remembers the way his heart used to race in her presence, the longing behind the light-hearted flirtation between friends, the green-eyed monster that stalked him...

"I didn't know you felt that way."

But there is a surprising uncertainty behind her denial, and he looks up at her blue eyes, pushing back gently. "Didn't you?"

_I don't know._ Beverly stammers and looks away again, a flutter of panic rising in her. "I—I guess I always knew that there was an attraction between us, right from the start. But I never knew how strongly you felt."

_You were never meant to._ Picard smiles hollowly at the revelation of this secret he has guarded for so long. He has always wanted to protect her from it. Wanted, too, if he's honest, to protect himself.

She swallows, trying to make sense of the rush of images and emotions, coming to understand the truth. _Did you really…?_

_Yes._

Her voice is barely audible. "Why didn't you ever tell me you were in love with me?"

"You were married to my best friend." Of course she knows this, but she deserves, doesn't she, to have him confess the shameful truth aloud. He hesitates a moment, having no idea how to continue from here, but as he looks at her, at the firelight dancing on her delicate, pale skin, he finally sees that there is no way forward but through. He surrenders.

"At first, I thought it was harmless infatuation, something hormonal rather than emotional." He speaks evenly, as if they are making small talk at her table over breakfast and not disturbing the very foundations of their friendship.

She continues in the same calm, quiet tones, staring into the flames as she fits the puzzle pieces together. "Then when the months went by and the three of us began spending more time together…"

He nods. "I realized that it was something else. And it wasn't right. But although I would never act on it…I couldn't help the way I felt."

"And when Jack died you felt guilty."

_Oh, for much longer than that._ He grimaces. "I felt guilty before he died—having feelings like that for my best friend's wife. And then later, after the accident, I promised myself that I would never tell you know how I felt. It would be like betraying my friend." His throat tightens. _And now I have, haven't I? I'm sorry, Jack._

Beverly hugs her knees to her chest, sorting swiftly through memories of her own, and makes another connection. "That's why you didn't want me on the _Enterprise_ seven years ago."

He nods again, regretting how coolly—how cowardly—he had behaved towards her then, but she doesn't seem upset. "I didn't know how I would react," he admits. "And then, little by little, I realized that I didn't have those feelings anymore." He smiles wanly. "Twenty years is, after all, a long time."

This is true, but it is not the whole truth; and perhaps it is simply another instance of his cowardice when it comes to her, but he silently pleads for her to leave it at that, to allow him a dignified retreat of a kind he does not imagine he deserves.

Her keen blue eyes search his for a moment and he feels her answering succession of emotions—hesitation, fear _(of what?)_ that she is struggling to suppress, and finally a desire to affirm, in spite of everything, the bond they've spent these many years cultivating. With a small, tentative smile, she reaches out to him. "And now we're friends."

He grasps her hand tightly, relief washing through him at the mercy she has granted him. "Yes, friends."

She lets the touch linger for one more beat, then pulls back, rubbing her hands together for a last bit of warmth from the fire. She rises from her perch on the rock and stretches. "Well. We still have a lot of ground to cover tomorrow. We should get some sleep."

"Right."

She moves to the other side of the fire pit and lies down on a patch of straw, her back to him. It's a clear indication that she too wants to retreat, to be left alone to sort through her own thoughts, but the implants will not allow them to separate either mentally or physically. For as much control as they each exercise over their words, their actions, it is difficult to _think_ of anything besides what has just passed between them; and he feels that she is still brittle, unsettled. He regrets there is so little he can do to help, but he tries.

_Do you want me to stay awake over here and keep watch?_

_No, we both need our rest._

Reluctantly he acknowledges the sense of this, as he is admittedly now exhausted both physically and emotionally. After one more prod of the fire, he moves to her side, eases down onto his back, and folds his hands across his chest. He is careful to keep some space between them, but is acutely aware of her proximity. The ground is hard, moreover, and the sounds of the wilderness around them unfamiliar and vaguely alien.

He has no idea how he is going to sleep.

_Me either._ She is staring into the darkness and shifts uncomfortably. _I wish there was something else to focus on_, she confesses.

He says the first thing that pops into his mind. _What about Mozart?_

She is bemused. _Mozart?_

_Music_, he offers. _Here._ He pulls up a few notes of the first melody he can think of, pauses and resets it from the beginning, and begins to "play" the piece in his mind. They haven't tried this with the telepathy yet and he doesn't know if it will work.

But she smiles and he feels her relax as she hears it, too. _Mozart. That's nice._

Together they listen to the intricate, remembered harmonies of the clarinet concerto, winds and strings weaving their soothing spell, until he feels her drift to sleep, and he soon follows.

#-#-#-#


	2. Chapter 2

As daylight slowly stretches across the sky, Jean-Luc Picard searches among the fading stars for the tiny point of light that is his ship; but the effort is, of course, in vain. He sighs inwardly. He's sure his first officer is working diligently to bring them home, but if the diplomatic situation on the planet was so fraught even before this disastrous incident, he can only imagine the difficulties Will Riker must be encountering. In the meantime, lest they be captured again by the paranoid, hostile faction absurdly accusing them of conspiracy and enemy collaboration, it is incumbent on him and Beverly to reach the safety of Kes territory as quickly as they can on their own.

At the moment, though, Beverly is resting beside him, her mind quiet in dreamless sleep, and he finds he is loath to disturb her.

He rolls carefully to one side, muscles stiff and protesting at the combined indignities of all of the prior day's hard climbing and hiking, and the unyielding ground. _Getting old_, he thinks irritably, though to be fair there was no reason as of yesterday morning to have _expected_ to find himself in these circumstances. He takes the quick opportunity to relieve himself in privacy, then retrieves Beverly's tricorder and settles down on the stone seat from the night before. It will be well to acquaint himself with the remaining terrain they need to traverse in order to reach the border; the distance is relatively short, but given the hilly landscape, it will be difficult. They have many obstacles yet to overcome.

Not least, perhaps, those of his own making.

His eyes stray across the ashes to Beverly's sleeping figure. For years, he remembers, he had told himself it was simply the nature of command to be isolated, and he'd never seen himself as _lonely_, exactly...but his retreat from Beverly, from _any_ close friendships, after Jack's death and the loss of the _Stargazer_ had undeniably set him apart. Perhaps it had been a kind of expiation for his sins, after all, but after enough time had passed he halfway forgot what it had even been like before.

And then Beverly Crusher requested assignment to his ship, and breezed past all his objections and self-imposed walls to become the closest friend he's ever had. Not at first—at first, as he told her last night, he found he didn't have the same feelings, friendly or otherwise, as before, partly because he'd denied them so long he had almost convinced himself. But the easy rapport, the latent attraction, the _connection_ were still there between them, and as they began to spend more time together after her return from Medical he found that he had fallen for her all over again. Challenging, brilliant, incisive, vibrant, and compassionate, she has become his best friend, and he loves her for that, and occasionally he can even admit to himself that he simply loves _her_. He has always known he will never act on it, and perhaps she has always known that too; but what they have is so ineffably strong, so essential, that it doesn't even matter to him. What would he do without her? He doesn't know. He doesn't know how he could _ever_ go back to the old solitude, and so he is thankful, beyond all measure, that she seems inclined not to hold his old sins against him. Still, he knows he has hurt her trust, and he is desperately sorry for it.

The past is so tricky a thing to escape.

It's curious to know that she's awakened before she's moved a muscle, but he senses it. No doubt from long years of practice, she comes to full alertness in only a moment. He feels her question as she starts to turn and realizes he isn't next to her. _Jean-Luc?_

_Over here_, he replies quickly. "Good morning."

If she had a pillow, he thinks, she would pull it over her head. _I think you and I have different ideas of "good," Jean-Luc._

_I was being polite._

She grins at him, then winces as she gets up gingerly and makes her way to his side of the firepit. "Well, next time, we stay in a hotel."

"I'll be sure to arrange one."

_Though that might cause some issues of its own._

He looks up sharply, sees an amused glint in her eyes. Then she puts up her hands and some color flushes into her cheeks. "Sorry...force of habit, I guess."

He smiles, a bit regretfully. "I know." It is the trouble, isn't it, that there really always _has_ been this attraction between them, that they both are fully cognizant of, but that only she really ever indulges through her teasing of him.

_Dammit._

_It's really all right._

The results of his last scan flash on the tricorder screen, pulling his attention back to their present circumstances. He can't help his concern at the readout.

She sees it in his thoughts. "No water?"

He shakes his head grimly, and her face tightens as she re-ties her hair back into a knot at the nape of her neck. It's been more than twelve hours since they last found a stream, and there is nothing else registering between here and their destination. He can hear her running through all the effects of dehydration in her mind, especially if the heat is anything like what they experienced yesterday, and she calculates the likely time until they will start to feel more seriously affected.

_We don't have a choice._

_I know. _

_Are you ready?_

_Let's go._

They set out together, determined to reach their destination before the sun gets too high in the sky, before their pursuers catch them. It's easy to concentrate on the journey, with fewer extraneous thoughts to distract them today. Whether their mental discipline is better or they've simply adapted to the telepathy better than one might expect, he doesn't know. He does think he might not have adapted this well at all if his companion were anyone besides her. He thinks she agrees.

He wonders at one point, as they make their way up a challenging ridge, whether she will have any difficulty removing the implants when they return.

"It should be all right," she answers aloud, and he feels she is glad to seize on a technical question to analyze. "I just need access to my diagnostic instruments to study the precise mechanisms of the neural interface before removal. The tricorder doesn't have the right tools."

"But we'll be fine?"

"Yes," she agrees, an odd mix of regret and relief behind the word. "I can't think of any other instance quite like this in the literature, though," she continues after a moment, and he understands she is focusing on the science again to distract herself.

"But surely, there are other instances of humans experiencing telepathic connections?" he asks, curious now.

"Of course." With clinical efficiency she runs through several examples in her mind, mostly involving non-human telepathic races interacting with humans; and then her sense suddenly turns amused. "You know, Jean-Luc, you are something of a case study in your own right."

_Glad to be of service_, he sends dryly.

"And fortunately, I've been your doctor for all of those instances," she adds cheerfully. _And written up a few of those studies_. "So, nothing to worry about."

_Wonderful_. "Well," he muses, pausing to catch his breath, "if nothing else, I imagine we'll have a good deal to talk about with Counselor Troi."

Beverly shoots an incredulous look up at him as she picks her way up the incline behind him. _Are you serious?!_

_What?_

"There's no _way_ I'm talking to Deanna about this, Jean-Luc."

He laughs out loud at the unexpected ferocity of her reaction. "Beverly," he chides. "Wouldn't you normally tell _me_ that I shouldn't process an experience like this on my own?"

She is unapologetic. _You do what you want in this case, Jean-Luc. I would rather NOT psychoanalyze every aspect of this experience. _

_It is rather personal_, he concedes, turning to offer her a hand up to the crest of the ridge.

She pulls up beside him, a bit out of breath, but with a smirk on her lips as she raises one eyebrow at him. _You think?_

He gives her an answering sardonic look before turning his attention to the valley below, where he can finally see the forcefield marking the border. The sun is really beating down now, and his uniform is uncomfortable and sweaty, but the _Enterprise_—and freedom, food, _water_—now seem within reach; and with shared resolve and fresh urgency they begin to make their descent.

They are halfway down the hill when the Prytt find them, a shout from above their only warning before shots are fired. A phaser beam blasts the ground between them and Picard is thrown backwards by the force, tumbling out of control down the gravelly slope.

_Jean-Luc!_

Beverly is sliding frantically down the hill towards him, clouds of dust kicking up under her feet, and he grips her arm for support as she helps pull him up. "I'm all right," he gasps, trying to catch his breath and shake off the impact. "Come on."

They're on the run now, desperate to make it to safety, and they reach the border fence scant minutes ahead of the troopers. Beverly sets to work rapidly to find a way through the forcefield. "I think I can use the tricorder to set up a multiphase pulse. That should weaken the field enough to let us through."

He catches something in her train of thought that doesn't track with the readouts. "No, no—the modulation frequency is in the upper harmonic range."

"Right."

He looks behind them, sees the armed Prytt officers over the ridge. "They're coming."

She doesn't look up, and he feels the urgency in her thoughts. "I'm working as fast as I can."

He glances back along the field, trusting she will find a solution but searching for any other way around or through the barrier. Suddenly he feels a flash of resolve from Beverly and before he can react, she shoves him and he stumbles forward, through a gap in the forcefield that immediately closes again.

He turns and stares at her in mute horror.

Her blue eyes are locked on his and he feels her defiance and fear as the Prytt officers seize her by the arms. A helpless rage wells in him at the sight.

_Beverly, why?!_

And then to his absolute astonishment he feels it, a rush of swirling memories and emotions so complex he has no chance of fully sorting through it all, but all with common throughline—friendship, affection, respect, attraction—

_Love_.

The Prytt trooper calls to report to his superiors. "Minister, we have the human female. The male is standing in Kes territory."

An eternity passes in seconds and he is struck by the force of how deeply she cares for him, even to the point of sacrificing her freedom for his. It isn't _fair_; he would have done the same in a heartbeat if he'd had the chance—

_I know._

Then he registers the disembodied voice coming through to their captors, ordering transmission of their coordinates to the _Enterprise_, and within moments they have materialized on the air-conditioned transporter pad and their ordeal—

—is over.

There is a pause.

"Welcome back, sir. Dr. Crusher," comes the voice of the transporter chief. "Commander Riker should be down here in just a moment to meet you."

His heart is still pounding and it's hard to tear his eyes away from her; but with a discipline born of years of experience, Picard straightens up, clears his throat, and nods. His voice is even, and only slightly hoarse. "Very good, Lieutenant."

"Thank you," Beverly adds warmly.

They look at each other again, still a bit stunned at the change in circumstance, and a slight, shaky smile comes to her lips. _So, um...dinner tonight?_

He laughs, and her smile widens, as Riker arrives to debrief them.

_That...sounds perfect._


	3. Chapter 3

Thanks so much for the kind feedback, especially those I can't reply to directly! Y gracias también a mi lector(a) español(a) - sí hay química entre ellos, y me divierto escribirla! It is very much appreciated :)

#-#-#-#

In a belated spirit of comity—or just in hopes of the Federation forgetting the whole kidnapping affair and departing Kesprytt as quickly as possible—the Prytt have provided the _Enterprise_ all pertinent information on their psionic implants. This turns out to be less than helpful for several reasons, most importantly because, in rather barbaric fashion, the devices were never designed to be removed from interrogated suspects, or at least not without mental damage. They have never before been used, moreover, on non-Kesprytt species. Accordingly, though it still appears it will be relatively straightforward, removal of the implants will not be _quite_ so simple as switching them off.

Beverly, who upon their arrival in Sickbay grabbed a sandwich and glass of water and immediately set to work, is consulting with two members of her senior staff, as she has been for over an hour. Picard sits to one side, watching and waiting for the team to finish with their analysis. It is admittedly somewhat interesting to experience Beverly's professional fascination with the biomechanics of the psi-wave transceivers, and hear her thought processes as she analyzes and maps out the effects of removal. Still, he feels useless and slightly ridiculous here; he would much prefer to be on the bridge, managing the fallout from the diplomatic situation with the Kes. He would, in the alternative, prefer to be able at least to _shower_ and change out of his dusty, sweaty uniform; but he can't move far because the implants still require him to be within a few-meter radius of Beverly. He tries to conceal his growing impatience. He suspects he isn't doing a very good job of it.

_You aren't_.

He harrumphs at her silently.

She looks up, face still smudged with dirt and hair still unkempt, and gives him a dry look. _It *is* brain surgery, Jean-Luc_.

He concedes the point.

Another half-hour passes before he understands the team is ready. The doctors review the procedure with him, although he isn't too interested in the details; they will need to be sedated, and Dr. Selar will operate while Nurse Ogawa will monitor them. It should be a very quick process now that they know what they're doing, and he feels Beverly's confidence.

"Right." He nods his agreement, and yet can't quite suppress the trepidation welling up in him now that they are at this point.

_What is it?_

He glances at Selar and then back to Beverly, his forehead creasing a bit, and he pauses. He has tried not to think on it, but remembers now other times in his life that he has lived with the thoughts of others in his mind. With Sarek, it was overwhelming because of the intensity of the emotions and memories, and because of the novelty of feeling another being's consciousness alongside his own. To be clear, he had offered, _chosen_, to undergo the mind-meld as a gesture of goodwill to the great man. The effects nonetheless lingered after the fact.

With the Borg, it had been a living nightmare. A collective of millions invading his mind, sifting through every aspect of his memories, thoughts, knowledge, assimilating what they wanted, shoving aside his feeble attempts to resist, using him to massacre, to _destroy_. Following his rescue, Data had severed his connection to the hivemind and Beverly had personally removed every last alien implant, but the monstrous voices echoed in his consciousness for weeks—_months_—and at times he despaired that he would ever be free of them.

_I remember, too._

As a doctor, and as a friend, her expression is somehow compassionate and fierce at the same time. She isn't pretending that she understands _exactly_ what he felt, from the inside, and yet she is gently reminding him that she _was_ there, right there alongside him, through these and other experiences, and she knows too well what he has suffered, for she has suffered too. He is chagrined.

_I didn't mean to imply— _

_I know you didn't. But based on my study, I *promise* this will be different._

He clears his throat, suddenly aware that Selar, in her impassive Vulcan manner, is observing their silent communication. He is discomfited by the scrutiny. _Even so. I do usually prefer for *you* to be my physician_, he admits.

She smiles, touched. _Me too. Also, trust me, I hate being a patient_.

_And you say I'm the difficult one._

_Oh, you definitely are, _she shoots back, then straightens up. "Assuming everything goes well with me first, I'll monitor your progress directly, Captain," she promises aloud, and he is reassured. "We'll be out of here before you know it."

She really does hate being a patient, though, and as they take their places on adjacent biobeds, he feels that she is now anxious in turn.

_Are *you* all right?_

_I'll be fine. I just— _Her sense grows curiously small, and he is surprised, though perhaps he shouldn't be, to realize that her anxiety isn't about Selar, or psychological trauma or its aftereffects, at all.

It's him.

_You'll still be here when I wake up?_

_Of course I will. Dinner, right?_

She swallows, nods firmly. _Dinner. Jean-Luc—_

She stops, and he can feel that she doesn't know what to say—to think. This singular connection has lasted all of thirty-six hours, and they've already become accustomed to each other in a way he wouldn't have imagined possible; but it will very soon be just a memory. There isn't really any choice, but it's understandable that it feels like a loss of something unique. He tries to project as much reassurance as he can. _We'll be fine, Beverly. _He gives her a half-smile. _Besides, if I had to run the ship from Sickbay you'd grow tired of me very quickly._

_I'd kick you out in the first thirty minutes_. She bites her lip to stop a smile; and then the hypospray pressed to his neck brings sleep.

#-#-#-#

When he wakes up, Beverly is there beside him, but she is no longer _with_ him. He feels strangely empty.

She speaks, and he hears her voice from without, not within, as she smiles with a wistful emotion he can no longer feel from her. "Everything went quickly and smoothly, Captain. As long as you feel fine, we can be discharged to quarters now and back on duty tomorrow."

He nods, sits up carefully, and feels at the back of his neck to confirm the transceiver implant is no longer there. "Yes, I feel fine. Thank you."

"Wonderful, then you're free to get out of here. I know you can't wait," she teases lightly.

"Indeed." _I'll see you later?_ he thinks at her, but of course she can't hear him anymore. He slides off the biobed and attempts to maintain his composure.

She places a hand on his shoulder and drops her voice to a whisper, as Selar moves out of range across the room. "I'll see you later," she says, and he smiles.


	4. Chapter 4

It's a _late_ dinner, but after all the events of the past two days, he's taken the trouble to make it a more elegant affair than their usual, informal custom. Breakfast should be simple. Dinner, when one hasn't eaten a proper meal in two days and is celebrating a return home to safety, ought to be a bit nicer. Candles are lit around his quarters and as a centerpiece on the table, and he's ordered nicer china. Beverly rarely does anything in particular with her hair or wears much other than her uniform or casual sweaters, but tonight she looks stunning with her hair swept half up, wearing a flattering velvet grey-green top, gold wrap skirt, and striking wine-colored nylons. For his own part, well, at least he's far more presentable than he was a few hours ago, a shower and a shave going a long way.

He's started with a first course of vegetable soup, to her evident delight; and while by unspoken agreement they steer clear of discussing anything directly related to their recent experience, as usual they never lack for things to talk about. Somehow there is even a new day's worth of gossip Beverly picked up from Sickbay this afternoon after his departure. He does occasionally wonder (though he sensibly does not say so aloud, and Beverly is no longer able to chide him mentally for the thought), whether a captain should know _quite_ so much about the dating habits of various nursing assistants; but she is happy and relaxed, so he is too.

Finishing the last of her meal, she sits back with a satisfied sigh. "That was wonderful."

"My pleasure," he says easily. And it has been; there is no one else he more enjoys the company of, no else he can be more himself around. She has been with him through some of the lowest points of his life, and now seen even the most deeply personal parts of his psyche, and somehow she still seems content to be with him.

More than that, the entire evening seems to have crossed an invisible threshold in the friendship they have shared for so long, to something more. He's not sure that he can remember another time they've spent quite like this, not least because _he_ would have been too wary of crossing any boundaries, given his long-ago promise to himself. With burdens of the past unexpectedly relieved, with the natural elation that follows survival of a mortal threat, he feels anything but wary right now; his heart, rather, feels ten times lighter. They still haven't spoken about their experience, of course, so he doesn't _presume_ anything about what this all might mean. He simply enjoys it.

She eyes him thoughtfully as he circles the table and picks up a bottle to pour after-dinner drinks for each of them. "Don't get me wrong, Jean-Luc, but I'm glad we're not joined at the hip anymore."

_Ah, here it comes._ "So, were you getting tired of my company?" he asks lightly, handing her a glass as she stands.

"Just tired of bumping into you every thirty seconds," she smiles. "I was beginning to feel as if you were part of my uniform."

Picard can't help but notice that she's nevertheless standing very close to him now...but he chuckles his understanding and lifts his glass. "To freedom," he offers.

"Freedom," she echoes, clinking glasses.

They sip their drinks and break the moment, settling down across from each other on his couches, and he stares idly at the reflection of the candlelight on the coffee table. It _is_ nice to be able to be alone with his own thoughts again; this is the natural order of the human condition, after all, and he truly doesn't know how telepaths manage to cope at all. And yet, there is something extraordinary about the way the two of them had adapted to the link, working through the mutual misunderstandings, stray thoughts, well-intentioned falsehoods, even long-buried truths, all laid bare from each to the other. Another friendship might not survive such naked revelation, only they found their way to communicate on a deeper level and forge an apparently _stronger_ connection with each other.

If love isn't knowing the whole of another person, and choosing them anyway, then what is it?

Beverly tilts her head at him. "Penny for your thoughts?" she says, with irony not lost on either of them.

He smiles ruefully, wondering how to phrase it. "I was just thinking that as distracting as it was, I was beginning to get used to hearing your thoughts, and I find that I miss it."

"So do I," she admits. "It was very intimate." She pauses, and he catches a subtle glimmer in her eyes as she shifts topics with a deceptively innocent tone. "You know, last night, I couldn't sleep."

He raises an eyebrow. She must have woken again sometime after he fell asleep. "Oh?"

She nods. "I was awake for several hours. And, thanks to the implants, I got to hear some _very_ interesting dreams of yours."

_Good Lord._ He can't remember anything, but the expression on her face… "A man cannot be held responsible for what his mind does while he's asleep," he protests mildly.

She leans forward, eyes never leaving his, and sets her glass down with an enigmatic smile. "What about when he's awake?"

He sucks in a quick breath, his mouth going dry. This is _definitely_ a crossing of a threshold, as she's always teased him, of course, but now she _knows_ how he feels; and she's looking at him with a provocative challenge in her gaze and he thinks, if this an invitation…

He means to take it.

He shifts forward on his seat and extends one hand across the narrow table; she places her slender hand in his, watching him closely. Her hand is warm and he thumbs it gently, feeling his pulse quicken with the frisson of new intimacy. His voice is barely more than a rasp. "So now that we've had this unique experience, what do we do?"

"What do you mean?" She's back to playing coy again and he wonders whether she is a little shocked, too, by the line she's just crossed.

"You know exactly what I mean."

"No, I don't. The implants have been removed, remember?"

She's transparently stalling, but she doesn't pull her hand away, and he's a bit frustrated that he can't immediately get a read on her sudden apparent ambivalence. There is a safety, to be sure, in staying within the known bounds of a relationship like theirs, even as one sometimes thrills with a brush up against the limits—precisely because of the unknown risks of going beyond. He's relied on that safety for twenty-five years. But with nothing hidden between them, _she_ has opened the door… If she just needs him to be more direct about it, he is more than willing.

Without breaking their connection, he crosses to sit beside her, folds her other hand between both of his, feels her squeeze in response. "Now that we know how each of us feels," he says, warm, earnest, "perhaps we should not be afraid to explore those feelings."

She looks at him searchingly, the smug confidence of mere moments ago replaced by uncertainty, then lifts her free hand to his face, brings her lips to brush against his—

And then turns her face away, pressing her cheek to his as she caresses him, and something inside him tears as this touch feels like an _apology_, not...not what he'd _hoped_, and he is burning with the desire to kiss her, and he fights to quell a sudden surge of despair.

Her left hand drifts down to rest along the v-neck of his shirt, her expression inscrutable as she says: "Or perhaps we should be afraid."

She _still_ hasn't pulled her hand away from his, still hasn't moved from him, and he doesn't understand.

"Beverly," he says, and his voice still sounds surprisingly warm and steady, considering the chasm threatening to swallow him from the inside. "Am I wrong that you do have feelings for me?"

She blinks and shakes her head. "No," she admits, and gives a shaky laugh. "Jean-Luc, you have no idea—I mean, you _do_ have an idea now, but…"

"And you know how strongly I feel for you?" he presses gently.

The barest hint of that knowing smile comes back to her lips, and he wonders if the familiar sardonic response is on her tongue, but she mercifully doesn't tease him again. "I know," she says softly.

"Then why be afraid?" She's starting to brush her thumb against the hairs of his chest, and it's insanely distracting and the desire is _consuming_ him, but his voice is still preternaturally calm.

"A _universe_ of reasons, Jean-Luc, but you're the optimist—maybe you don't see them." She shrugs helplessly. "Also, to be honest...maybe I never imagined we'd actually be here."

He does understand _that_; he would've gone to his grave without this moment ever being a possibility, but neither of them counted on Kesprytt, and surely she sees how this has changed the entire calculus.

"And yet we are." He looks down, turning her hand over to thread their fingers, savoring this intimacy, desperately resisting the thought that it could also be an ending. "Beverly, I do not presume to have all the answers yet."

"Neither do I. So then what do we do?"

It would probably not be wise to voice the very specific rush of images that come to mind at this question, but then again, she's _seen_ his mind on the matter—which is the entire trouble in the first place. He gives a half-smile and glances up at her. "I'm sure I have an idea where to start," he allows. "The rest is up to you."

Her eyes are impossibly blue as she stares into his, and he can't hear what she's thinking but he _sees_ her thinking it through, and he feels a faint stirring of reborn hope and then—

"Damn," she swears softly, and she kisses him again.

This time—

This time, it is _everything_ he hoped for. The feel of her soft, searching lips on his, her hands sliding up his chest and around his neck, is utterly incredible, and as he pulls her into his arms and she melts against him he kisses her deeply in return, giving license to passion and desire he's so carefully sublimated for _decades_. As close as they have always been, even sharing thoughts and feelings, this is a entirely new level of connection, and it is exhilarating and astonishing. It is a fulfillment; it is a promise.

It is a _gift_, freely given and returned.

Beverly pulls back fractionally, resting her forehead on his, swallowing to compose herself, and her cheeks are flushed almost as red as her lips. "Well," she breathes, almost to herself, "I suppose that's a place to start."

"Yes, I should say so," he manages. The space between them is humming with electric energy and his pulse is hammering in his ears, and he wants nothing more than to kiss her again; but exercising all of his self-discipline, he works to calm his body's responses. Controlling his _thoughts_ of her, of course, is a lost cause at the moment, but at least she can no longer hear them.

She could probably guess.

Almost as if she _has_ somehow heard him, she sits back and eyes him with an amused, but affectionate, gaze. "Jean-Luc...I'm not saying this isn't—_wonderful_—but do you think that this is acting too quickly, after everything that's just happened?"

He considers, brushing his thumb across her cheek, pushing a tousled strand of red hair away from her eyes. He realizes he must look a trifle ridiculous in that he can't stop smiling at her, but one would hope this would be a forgivable offense given the circumstances. "Beverly, without psychoanalyzing anything," he says at last, and she stifles a laugh, "I would venture to say that you and I are a case study in _not_ acting quickly. But there's no need to rush into anything from here if you don't want to."

The blush on her cheeks as she returns his smile is captivating, and she shifts back closer to him, relaxing as he drapes an arm over her shoulders. "All right. I'm just noting for the record that neither of us has even _slept_ well in a few days, and we've been through a very intense experience, and, well, it would be nice to just...enjoy this."

He's quite enjoying this as it is, but has to admit she has a point. "Noted for the record, Doctor," he says dryly. "We can take all the time in the world."

"Well, not _all_ the time," she amends with a grin. "But I don't even know—what do other people _do_ in this situation?"

"Do you mean other people who don't have twenty-five years of history behind them?" He doesn't have much experience to speak of within that entire period of time, which...is not necessarily lamentable, given that he's been content to spend much of his free time with Beverly for several years now. He's half a lifetime removed from his cadet days, regardless.

"Yes, exactly," she says ruefully, and he imagines she is thinking along much the same lines. "I suppose people go on dates; we could try that. Maybe go out to some concerts or plays, or dinners in Ten-Forward."

"We already do those things together," he points out.

"Right. Holodeck dates, then. What about camping?" she suggests mischievously, and he laughs out loud.

"Beverly, I think I've had my fill of camping for the time being."

"Well, you do build a very nice campfire, Jean-Luc."

"Thank you. I suppose I'll try my hand at it again sometime, then, if you would like me to escort you on a holodeck date," he says graciously, and then adds after a moment's thought, "With well-stocked provisions and better sleeping accommodations than last evening."

"Well, _that_ goes without saying." She sighs happily. "All right. Since we now have _plans_...I think I should be going for the night."

He nods, but decides that now is an ideal opportunity to kiss her once again, and he traces a hand up the open v of her back, pulling her towards him again. She closes her eyes and murmurs with pleasure, returning his lingering kiss for a long moment, before they reluctantly disengage.

Taking a deep breath, he rises and helps her up from the couch, and she squeezes his hand as they turn towards each other at the door. "Would you like to come over for breakfast?" she asks lightly.

He can't resist the opening. "As long as it's not the Vulcan dish."

She gives him an amused look. "I thought we already sorted that out."

"Just so."

"Wonderful. 0700, then." She smiles as he leans in for one more kiss. "Good night, Jean-Luc."

"Good night," he murmurs.

When the doors have closed behind her he surveys his cabin, the candles burning low in their holders, the empty dishes and glasses that are the signs of a shared life; and he cannot recall that he has ever been more contented, more _hopeful_, in his life. He makes his way to the window and stares out at the stars, the pleasant aftermath of the evening settling throughout his body, and he bends, with a breath, to blow out the flickering lights.


End file.
